


Six Hours

by Luna (lunasky)



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Challenge: Get Some Porn Skirmish, Light Bondage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-02
Updated: 2009-07-02
Packaged: 2017-10-05 21:00:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunasky/pseuds/Luna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"I need you to do something," Nate said, finally.</i> Light bondage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Based on an amazing piece of art by trolleys, of Brad and Nate. Gosh, I still have no words to describe how awesome her art is. Needless to say, the pic consumed my brain until I finally wrote this.
> 
> Many, many, many thanks to Shoshanna Gold for her beta. I made her read it twice and then still harassed her for more. She deserves to be sainted for this. Any errant commas or other mistakes are, of course, all mine.

The sound of the hall clock ticking, echoed between them. Two am.

"I need you to do something," Nate said, finally.

Brad sat further into his sofa, careful to appear relaxed; one arm resting across the back, the other cradling his beer. Part of him was dying to know why Nate was here. Eighteen months after his paddle party, and this was the first time Brad had seen him since. The other part of him sensed that whatever reason Nate had for traveling three thousand miles, on tonight of all nights, it wasn't going to be pretty.

Nate looked wrecked—had shown up at his doorstep three hours ago looking tired, hair sticking up, dark circles under his eyes, bag slung carelessly over his shoulder.

Brad felt a stab of anger; not at Nate, but at whoever had done this to him. Sheltered, peace-supporting, commie-fuck students? Well-meaning yet utterly clueless roommates? Professors who knew theory, but never lived through the fucking implementation of it? Brad didn't know who to pin the blame on, so he passed it around equally on all possible parties. They had probably been expecting Nate to fill some predetermined role in their sanitized lives and felt angry and cheated when he didn't.

Well, nobody got to be disappointed in Nate.

Taking a sip from what had to be piss-warm beer by now, Nate cradled the bottle and looked down, silent again.

Brad continued to wait patiently. The row of t-shirts, underwear, socks, and sweats, sitting neatly on his bed would have to wait a little longer.

"It's just—" Nate stopped almost as quickly as he'd begun. "Things are—fucked up. I thought I could deal, and maybe I can—a little bit longer, maybe, but—you're leaving soon."

Brad glanced down at his watch, then back up at Nate, cursing everything under the stars. Eighteen months he'd waited, hoping to reconnect with Nate. Why couldn't they have had this conversation weeks—no—months ago? "I have six hours."

"I know."

Brad wondered how. There had been no phone calls, no emails, no mail. The only news Brad had heard was the occasional item from Mike about what Nate was up to.

Brad clamped down on his frustration. Nobody got to be disappointed in Nate, not even him. Nate had obviously needed the distance, both literally and figuratively, and Brad had found a way to carry on, despite the loneliness, emptiness and unanswered questions that sometimes gnawed.

Because he'd learned a lifetime ago he couldn't push his own fucked up dreams onto someone else and turn them into any sort of expectation.

He looked at Nate, wondering if there were any answers to be had now—then beat down the faint hope because it was obvious there were none. Nate didn't even know the questions. Brad wasn't sure Nate even knew why he was here.

"Do you know what the hardest part of living on the outside is?" Nate asked as the seconds slowly ticked by.

Brad shook his head.

"Coming home to an empty house; listening to your own echo as you walk through the front door. I…I never thought I could feel so small inside my own head."

Putting his beer down on the table, Brad leaned forward. "What do you want me to do?" he asked gently, focusing on that. Because whatever Nate's problems were, Brad knew he wouldn't have come here if they could be solved by getting a dog.

Nate looked up at him miserably and if Brad could have read minds, he would have plucked the words from there. There were things officers didn't talk about with enlisted men; there were things civilians didn't talk about with military personnel. Then there were the things Nate Fick apparently didn't talk about with anyone.

So Brad resorted to gathering what intel he could.

He started making a list of things that Nate could possibly want, disregarding the mundane and the absurd. Whatever Nate wanted, he wanted it badly; his hands were still clenched tightly around his beer. Likely to keep them from shaking.

He crossed off things that Nate could get from other sources, then he eliminated those related to their shared interests. Baseball or skydiving were probably not what Nate had in mind.

Which left only one thing. At least it was something Brad understood.

Coming back from Iraq, Brad had found himself disoriented. He knew what Nate meant when he said things seemed smaller; Brad himself had found things to be insignificant, instead. Not just the mundanities of life state-side, but colors were duller when not reflecting the blinding glare of the sun. Complex smells were too subtle and they tickled his nose for days before he stopped looking for the smell of cordite and sweat from the men. And the ground felt oddly calm under the cushioning of his sneakers and without the near constant rattling of the Humvee driving over rocks, shaking his bones.

_…listening to your echo as you walk through the front door_

Brad suddenly understood. Downtime meant thinking time. Something Brad had instinctively tried to avoid and that had included not coming home when he had nothing to do. Training exercises were his haven, even the after action reports that followed. There was a certain peace to be had in mind-numbing paperwork and bless the military because it had a fuckload of that. Even when he wasn't occupied with work, there were always people around. It was easy to get lost in the constant chatter and antics of his fellow Marines.

He looked over at Nate who didn't have the same luxury. Nate had to study, had to live in the real world where people expected him to be able to sit quietly, contemplating his own thoughts.

"You need a way to live in your own skin without going mad," Brad said finally.

Nate didn't meet his eyes. "I need a way to not be me."

Something twisted inside Brad. Nate had come here to deal with this. He'd come to Brad for help, and Brad would have moved mountains for Nate if he could. But what the fuck was he supposed to do six hours before leaving for the UK?

Brad got up, aware of Nate watching him as he paced, taking inventory of what was still in his apartment. He had some booze: a bottle of vodka in the freezer, some gin in the cabinet, but Nate needed something more than just numbness.

_I need a way to not be me._

Brad had no idea how to help him with that. Nate would always be the platoon commander who got them home alive and in one piece. He would also be a former officer forever wondering if his decisions had been the right ones and a person who's training in the Marine Corps ensured he would always be in control of his body and mind.

A thought flickered through Brad's mind as he spotted a bag of used clothes he'd put aside to go to charity.

Nate had always been in control and always would be. It was his nature.

Brad analyzed the risk inherent in his idea and then decided it was still the proper course of action. The risk would be a burden on him, but one he would never let stop him from doing anything, especially for one of his Marines. And Nate was his, no mistake about it.

"Take your shirt off," Brad said quietly as he crossed the room and ripped open the bag.

"Excuse me?" Nate asked.

Brad rummaged through the clothes until he found what he was looking for—an old tie he hadn't worn in years. Picking it up, he turned back to Nate.

"Come on," Brad said, going back toward the couch and getting Nate to stand up. Now that he'd decided on his course of action, he committed to it fully. With quick, sure movements, Brad pulled the t-shirt over Nate's head.

"What are you doing?" Nate asked, but didn't stop him.

Brad ran his fingers down Nate's arm, taking a moment to enjoy the feel of his skin. It wasn't an innocent pat on the arm, an accidental bump in a crowded O-Group or being squashed together behind a berm while getting shot at. It also wasn't how he'd pictured touching Nate for the first time but Brad was used to making do. Nate's muscles flexed and relaxed under his touch, sending a shock of electricity through Brad.

Nate shuddered. "Brad, we can't. I can't risk your career—"

Brad brought an effective end to that argument by bringing Nate's arms behind his back. Confusion flitted across Nate's face while Brad held his wrists together and bound them in a buntline hitch. Since struggling would make the knot tighter, Brad made sure to put a bight through at the end. The risk was there, but with an easy out if needed.

Taking a step back, Brad saw that Nate understood; his eyes were wide with shock and his whole body tense.

"If this crosses a line you're not comfortable with, you tell me to fucking stop."

The shock melted away, replaced by caution as Nate raised an eyebrow. "That's your safe word? 'Fucking stop.'"

"It works."

"How is this going to help?" Nate asked. He still hadn't said stop though, so Brad continued toward his objective.

Walking around, he looked up and down Nate's body as Nate tracked his movements. He'd never seen Nate's body so bare. Even in the field, Nate had maintained a certain level of professionalism, maintained the grooming standard, so to speak. Even so, Brad could tell Nate had gained back some of the weight he'd lost in Iraq, giving his body a healthier look.

Civilian life hadn't softened him too much.

Brad's eyes lingered on Nate's stomach, on the fine pale hair that went from his navel on down past the waist of his jeans, teasing Brad as it beckoned him to follow. He forced his eyes back to Nate's face, reaching out slowly and putting his hands on Nate's cheek.

Nate closed his eyes. "Brad—"

"Shh."

"You can't—"

"I can. I'm in charge now."

When Nate went silent, Brad trailed his hand down Nate's neck, tracing his clavicle, and down the side of his body, steeling himself against the surge of emotions pounding in his chest. He had six hours to shock Nate out of his funk, to rewrite some of the damage done to him in Iraq and there was no way it was enough time. All Brad could hope for was that this approach made up in intensity what it lacked in longevity.

Nate's body was warm. Firm. Alive. Brad put his hand firmly on Nate's chest, felt his heart pounding under his touch.

Brad leaned in and whispered, "You still have me, you know. Here. Wherever. Watching your six. Watching you."

Nate's breathing became faster, his eyes still closed and he shivered. "It isn't fair to dump this on you now—"

"Bullshit." Brad softened his words and moved behind Nate, bringing his hands up to Nate's shoulders. Rubbing them, working out some of the knots that were rock hard between his shoulder blades. As Nate relaxed, he slumped over and Brad moved back around to the front of him.

Nate didn't look up as Brad's hands ran down his sides, finally resting on the waist of his jeans. Brad wanted to kiss him, wanted to lick his body starting from his neck and moving down, wanted to follow that pale patch of hair all the way to Nate's dick.

It was getting harder to differentiate what he wanted from what he needed to do, because they were barely indistinguishable from each other at this point.

Brad moved slowly to undo the button and zipper of Nate's fly. It was only when Brad's fingers skimmed the top of Nate's underwear that Nate jerked out his reverie, tugging against his restraints for the first time.

"Brad—"

Taking a small step back, Brad undid his own pants, never taking his eyes off Nate, waiting for a sign that he'd finally pushed things too far. Nate swallowed nervously though his lips remained tightly shut; the expression on his face one Brad couldn't decipher.

Fear—maybe. Longing—possibly.

He slowly approached Nate again, giving him plenty of time to object, sliding his hand smoothly down the front of Nate's open pants, when he didn't. Under his underwear, Nate's cock was half-hard.

Nate tugged at his restraints again as Brad stroked him, tugging harder as he got more aroused in Brad's hand. Nate struggled, yet never met Brad's face.

"Look at me," Brad ordered.

Nate jerked his head up in surprise. "Brad—"

Brad smiled as he squeezed and stroked up, Nate's cock becoming slicker, and sliding easily in Brad's hand. "What are you doing?" Nate stammered.

Brad responded by thumbing the slit of Nate's cock, smearing the precome around the head. Nate was trembling, but staring at him now; eyes wide and impossibly deep. Wanting. Desperate.

Taking his hand away, Brad pushed them both back onto the couch, kept pushing back until they were lying down. Nate went easily, compliant now as Brad brought his hips forward. Nate's pants were pushed down far enough that they could rub their cocks against each other, the thin fabric of their underwear not thin enough.

"We trusted you. We followed your orders and you got us home. Now let me do the same for you," Brad whispered. "Spread your legs."

Nate closed his eyes for a second as if thinking about it before opening them again and resting his head back into the sofa. He widened his legs as much as he could with his pants still down around his thighs. "I trust you."

Brad pulled their underwear down, grabbing both their cocks in his hand as he stroked them together. The heat concentrated right there and suddenly it felt like there was no denying what they were doing. Not with their dicks pressed against each other, not with tremors running through their bodies. Nate groaned and licked his lips.

The sight of Nate's mouth made whatever walls Brad had tried to erect to distance himself from this act crumble miserably. He wanted to kiss him hard, suck on those lips until they opened and let his tongue in, wanted to swallow Nate completely so that he'd became a permanent part of him and could never leave again.

On the verge of spiraling out of control, Brad forced his head back a little further away from temptation and tried to concentrate on breaking through Nate's control instead. At least from there he could look down and see their cocks sliding together. He reached down with his other hand as well, cupping Nate's balls, rolling them in his palm as Nate let out a moan.

Brad continued, faster, harder with the hand on their dicks, while Nate squeezed his eyes shut. He could tell Nate was close, his whole body tense and humming, but somehow, Nate still clung to a modicum of control.

The compulsion to taste became too strong. Brad leaned over and gently bit Nate's shoulder, the smooth white expanse of skin soft and yielding. The sweet, salty taste of Nate's skin was intoxicating, and Brad licked and sucked, traveling up Nate's neck to his ear as Nate ground against him.

Brad felt Nate shaking and rocking against him, bucking against the restraints so Brad held him tighter.

"Come all over me," Brad said into his ear. "Now, Nate. Please."

A half-sob, half-moan escaped from Nate's mouth as he arched against Brad, Nate's face an impossible mixture of surrender and fear as he came, warm wetness spreading between them as he cried out.

With Nate shaking against him and the sight of his come between them, Brad lost his own tenuous grip on control. Everything burst through him in a mad rush, dizzying and amazing, blindsiding him with its intensity as the pleasure pulsed from his dick out into the rest of his body, as if he'd been putting it off for hours, or weeks. Maybe even years. Brad held Nate tight, felt like he was holding on for dear life.

It had never been like this.

Never.

They lay there, panting, tangled against each other, unwilling and maybe unable to move. After a few minutes, when Brad's heartbeat returned to normal, he pushed his head back and Nate followed suit.

The sound of the clock ticking continued in the silence, reminding Brad they were out of time.

"See," Brad said, hiding the sadness from his tone with levity. Now that it was over, he was slowly coming back to his senses. This was it. Soon Nate would be back to school, and Brad would be on a plane. "You just needed someone to take care of you."

Nate looked at him with a peculiar look, one Brad didn't understand, but it didn't seem important. He felt too boneless, too much not in control any more, even though he wasn't the one tied up. And with the clock ticking in the background it didn't seem to matter any more. There was only one thing he wanted now and it was an inch from his lips. It didn't seem like such a bad thing to just take it. Brad started to lean forward, intent on Nate's mouth.

"No," Nate said, suddenly struggling against the tie.

Brad froze in confusion, their lips almost touching. "No?"

Nate's struggles turned to anger. "No. Stop, Brad. Fucking stop." With a hard tug, the tie gave way, ripping as he pulled his arms free and gave Brad a shove back so that he fell off the couch.

Shocked at Nate's outburst, Brad sat up on the floor.

"Sorry. I'm sorry," Brad said as Nate turned his back on him. Heat filled Brad's face. Somewhere, somehow, he'd gotten things wrong. He'd crossed the line. Sex had been one thing—a necessary thing, but his attempted kiss something else entirely.

"You're wrong, Brad, I didn't want somebody," Nate said turning back around. His eyes were blazing.

"I'm sorry. I just—I thought—"

Nate closed the distance between them, raking his hands through Brad's short hair, grabbing what he could and using it to bring Brad forward, so he was unable to escape.

Opening his mouth, Nate took Brad's tongue, took his love bites and returned them with some of his own, devouring Brad like a fire had opened up inside of him. Brad let Nate lead, let him have whatever he wanted because this is what Brad had wanted since they'd come back eighteen months ago.

"I didn't want somebody, Brad. Just you," Nate whispered.

He let Nate push them onto the floor, swearing as they tore awkwardly at the remains of their clothes.

Nate trailed his tongue down Brad's chest, through the sticky mess on his stomach and down to his cock. Brad groaned as Nate licked and sucked—his dick soft—but Nate didn't seem to care. It was all Brad could do to drag Nate back up his body, and hold him tight against his chest.

"It's ok," Brad said, breathless and exhausted.

"No, it's not," Nate replied, angry again. He pushed up so that he was sitting on Brad's legs. "I wasted so much time feeling dead. Now we only have—" he picked up Brad's wrist and looked at his watch. "—five hours until you leave."

Brad looked at Nate's face, at the passion and life that was burning there again, and smiled. Because suddenly time didn't seem to matter. If he had this, if it belonged to him then maybe six—five hours was enough.

"We'll be ok," he said again, dragging Nate back down on his chest. "We've invaded small cities in less time than that. I'm sure I have another tie somewhere."

For the first time that night, Nate smiled. He brought his hand up to Brad's face and ran his fingers across Brad's jaw.

"I hope so," Nate said. "But first I'll have to show you how to tie a decent knot."

Arching his eyebrow, Brad tried to properly convey his skepticism, then grinned as his eyes landed on the coiled white belt he hadn't packed yet. It had fallen off the coffee table and was sitting on the floor at eye level. Dress blues didn't come with a tie, but he could certainly think of ways to put other parts of the uniform to good use.


End file.
